My dear Merry,
It may surprise you to know why I’m writing you this letter.
I’ve come to think of you as my heir, Merry – the heir,
that is, of the Faramir who died in the Houses of Healing, in your loving
and generous arms. I am a different man now. A new path has been laid
at my feet, and that new path has brought me the love of an extraordinary
woman.
The old Faramir, though he has been put to rest, will live forever
in my memory. I remember how he was born from the crippled heart of
a young boy; how he was taught to love himself and others; and how he
kept that love alive by passing it on to men who needed it. The love
of men is a sacred torch, Merry. For me it has lit the way to enormous
joy. I am passing that torch to you, and in order to do so I must first
tell you my story. Please bear with the unhappy beginning, for which
I ask your sympathy but not your pardon. That unhappiness is the necessary
prologue to all that comes after.
How much better this story would be if I could begin with my first
real lover, a boy called Edrahil. He, however, was not the first person
who had my body. That sad distinction belonged to someone else.
My brother Boromir first came to my bed when he was eighteen and I
was only thirteen. You may ask, how can such young boys know love? The
love of mother and father should be well-known to them. But our mother
died when I was five, and our father loved Boromir only. Me, his second
son, he loved not at all. The only love I knew was my brother’s,
and love was an art he never really mastered.
Of course I idolized him. Everyone did. He was beautiful, he was brave,
he brought hope and courage to all who knew him. I thought myself lucky
to walk in his shadow, and luckier still to enjoy his brotherly protection.
The nightmare really started when he had just turned sixteen and his
friends took him out one night. Next morning he came to me, almost feverish
with excitement, and told me where they’d gone. On the second
level of the city, it seemed, there were houses where you could buy
women for an hour or two. He boasted to me of what he’d done with
the woman he bought, in far more detail than my eleven-year-old mind
could grasp. What I did grasp was the picture of my handsome and beloved
brother naked and godlike, a golden flame that could heat without burning.
I imagined his arms around me, his face against mine. I imagined losing
myself in the warmth of his embrace. I imagined a love that wrapped
me up like a cocoon.
Beyond that my young mind could not go. Children don’t know
what physical love is. Nor should they, till they are well and truly
ready.
But Boromir had discovered physical love, and he went back to the
second level again and again, night after night. He had all the boundless
energy of youth together with the power and position to indulge it.
I’m sure he tried every woman in every brothel he could find.
Months went by. His vigorous young body could not get enough, and after
a year he took to visiting his women by day as well as by night. Other
duties suffered: first his studies, then his swordplay. That, some months
later, was why our father finally took action.
He commanded Boromir to control himself. Then, knowing that this alone
would not suffice, he imposed harsh penalties on the houses that entertained
him. One he closed down for good. Soon my brother met only barred doors
wherever he went. He raged, but there was no remedy. For the time being,
his womanizing came to an end.
More months passed. He appeared to calm down in time, and gave our
father no cause to complain. His eighteenth birthday was celebrated
with wine and song; my thirteenth with silence.
But Boromir had not really stopped. He had simply discovered other
ways, as he finally told me. He had discovered boys.
“It’s a whole different world,” he said. “With
women, you go to a brothel and there they are. But we don’t have
boy brothels in Minas Tirith. You have to know someone who knows someone,
and then maybe they’ll set you up. If Father found out what was
going on, he’d close them down. So they’re very secretive.
What’s great about it is, the boys don’t make any demands.
Women want affection. I don’t know why. With boys all you need
is a little bit of spit to smooth the way. You’re in, you’re
out, and that’s it.
“Lately, though, I’ve been thinking: why should I waste
myself on trash like that when I could do it with someone . . . closer?
A friend, say. Or my own brother.”
I heard the unsubtle suggestion. It thrilled me! During the last two
years my own body had begun to mature, and when I touched myself it
was always with the vision of naked, golden Boromir in my mind. I imagined
him gazing at me with eyes of love. I imagined him kissing my mouth.
I imagined him making love to me, slowly and deeply. And now, here was
my chance to win him. Whatever he asked me to do, I would do. I thought
myself well and truly ready.
What did I know of these things?
Reality was nothing like my fantasies. The first few times I didn’t
even see him naked. He kept his shirt on, for one thing, and his leggings
never came off altogether. They just bunched up around his ankles. Moreover,
he preferred to keep me on my stomach. He may not have known there was
any other way. And as he had said, for him there was no affection with
boys, no tenderness. He never kissed me. He never even looked at me.
It hurt every time, from start to finish. It hurt a lot. He may not
have known that, either. I certainly never told him, and I would have
died rather than cry out.
But there was always one moment that made it worthwhile. It happened
just after he came, when his cock gradually went soft inside me and
his body lay spent on top of mine. That was when I felt the full weight
of him on my body, pressing me down into the mattress. He covered me,
the side of his face against my neck, his chest against my back, his
hips against my buttocks, his legs between my legs. It never lasted
long. Invariably he got up too soon, pulled up his leggings and left
me to manage my own small climax. While it lasted, though, it felt more
like love than anything else in my life.
I loved my brother, even when he hurt me.
And I was the one who spoiled it, such as it was. I wanted to see him,
all of him, naked as I’d always pictured him. I wanted, what’s
more, to watch him while he was inside me. I wanted to see his chest,
his shoulders, and most of all his face. I wanted to see love in his
eyes while he ground away at me. Surely, I thought, it could be done.
I practiced lying on my back with my knees against my chest, opening
my small cleft to the heavens. I became convinced that this was possible.
And one night I told him.
He seemed doubtful. But he couldn’t say just why, so in the end
he reluctantly agreed to try the experiment. Off came his clothes, which
was certainly a step in the right direction. The body he revealed was
every bit as entrancing as I’d hoped it would be, even if my adoring
gaze seemed to make him more than a little uncomfortable. And then the
positioning worked well enough on a mechanical level, once he’d
adjusted himself. He dug in with his usual gusto. I fought back my usual
grimace of pain. The adventure was underway.
But something began to go wrong almost immediately. I stared up at
him, willing him to meet my gaze. He would not. I put my hands on his
chest and squeezed his pale, pinkish-brown nipples. He batted my hands
away. I touched my own cock, stroking it to hardness. He rolled his
eyes and turned his head.
Why wouldn’t my brother look at me?
“Boromir,” I whispered. He did not answer. He was pounding
me hard now, the slap of flesh on flesh punctuating his short, sharp
grunts. My awkward position made the pain, if anything, worse than usual.
“Boromir!” I whispered again. He ignored everything but
his cock, jabbing in and out of my body. Clearly his aim was to climax
as soon as he could.
But I wanted so much to see the love in his eyes! If only he would
look at me, I thought, I would see it. It had to be there, even now,
and it would be mine if I could just manage to catch his eye. Desperate,
I reached up and touched his cheek with my fingertips.
Our eyes met. For an instant his whole body froze.
“What are you doing?” he snapped.
I looked at him in shock. There was no love in his eyes. There was
only contempt.
He had not come yet, but his cock was suddenly shrinking inside me.
He pulled out, swung himself off the bed and started throwing his clothes
on. I was horrified. I knew I shouldn’t speak, but I couldn’t
let him go like this.
“Boromir!” I said. “What is it? What have I done?”
He’d already gotten into his leggings and was flinging on his
shirt. “What have you done!” he echoed. “How can you
even ask me that? Acting as if you like it! Watching me! Touching me
– as if there were something between us!”
“There is something between us,” I shot back. “I’m
your brother!”
“Not when I’m pumping you, you’re not!” Boromir
retorted. “When I’m pumping you, you’re just a means
to an end. All right? I thought you knew that. You’re an easy
tumble, and I appreciate it. Believe me, I do. But I don’t appreciate
seeing your dewy-eyed face while I’m at it! Men don’t feel
that way about each other. Look what it does to me – I can’t
even stay hard! And me buck naked, too, on top of everything else! Because
you had to make a point of it.”
He strode to the door, paused, and glanced back.
“Put your clothes on, Faramir,” he said. “You look
like a whore.”
Then he was gone.
I don’t remember much about the next few months. Boromir avoided
me, day and night alike. And why not – an object he couldn’t
bear to look at while he pounded it? I understood. I didn’t want
to look at myself.
Eventually, without explanation, he returned to me. Everything went
back to the way it had been. Again, I understood. Girls were running
scarce. I lay flat on my face and waited for the brief moment when his
body melted into mine. It always came. It always went away. I gave up
wanting more.
Five years went by in this fashion. Outwardly I was the Steward’s
son, a paragon among my peers. I studied. I learned the arts of combat:
sword, spear and bow. I learned the arts of warfare: strategy, discipline
and leadership. If anyone observed that I had no real friends, they
probably chalked it up to pride. But I knew the truth. I was unfit for
the company of men. They were better off without me.
I continued to give Boromir what he wanted, as often or as seldom as
he wanted it. What else did I have to give him? What did I have to give
anyone?
One other person did take an interest in me during those years. It
was Mithrandir, the wandering wizard who sometimes dared to advise my
father on matters of state. He developed the habit (on those rare occasions
when he came to Minas Tirith) of watching me at swordplay or at archery.
Afterward he would come and talk to me about Gondorian history, or he
would suggest reading matter that he wanted to discuss with me. Soon
I realized that he knew our ancient library a great deal better than
I knew it myself. I resented him for it. But the Steward’s son
in me would not let this challenge go unmet. I read what he told me
to read. I listened to his comments. I even made comments of my own.
And some of it actually sank in.
Yet I felt, all the time, that I was merely fooling the Wizard along
with everyone else – fooling him, that is, into thinking me worth
more than an easy tumble. Or if I had not fooled him, I reasoned, then
he couldn’t have been much better than I was myself. Otherwise,
why would he seek my company?
One night, when Boromir had just come inside me and I lay waiting
for the feel of his body melting into mine, he stiffened.
“Mithrandir!” I heard him say. He got off the bed and
pulled up his leggings, which as always had bunched up around his ankles.
I raised my head. Just inside the door stood the Wizard. He was watching
me.
My gorge rose. I stuffed my knuckles into my mouth. In that moment
I realized that his good opinion mattered to me, mattered more than
I’d thought possible. And if I’d ever stood a chance of
gaining that good opinion, I’d surely lost it now.
Boromir finished tidying himself. He faced Mithrandir defiantly. “Filthy
graybeard!” he snarled. “I hope you enjoyed yourself. How
long were you watching?”
“Long enough.” Mithrandir’s voice was cold and dry.
“I suppose you’ll tell our father!” Boromir sneered.
“Is that what you would do?” Mithrandir asked him.
Boromir hesitated, then looked back at me. In my shock I’d made
no effort to cover myself or get up. What was the point? But the sight
of me seemed to enrage him.
“You’ve had me for the last time!” he shouted at
me. “Now get out!”
Mithrandir gave a small, angry chuckle. “Boromir,” he
said evenly. “You seem to have forgotten – this is your
brother’s room. You’d better go now.”
Boromir glared at him. For once he was at a loss. Then, with a last
furious glance at me, he ran. I heard his footsteps pelting down the
corridor.
Mithrandir closed the door. When he turned to face me, his expression
was unutterably sad – the saddest, perhaps, that I’ve ever
seen. I thought he would follow Boromir and leave me alone. Instead,
he rummaged in the chest till he found a clean nightshirt, which he
helped me put on. He smoothed my rumpled sheets and bade me lie down
on them. He drew the blankets over me and carefully tucked them in.
He took the chair that went with my desk and moved it over by the bed.
Then he sat down. I was dumbfounded. A small, hard knot of rage appeared
behind my ribs. Why, after what had just happened, was he still here?
“Do you want me to go?” he asked.
I gave a small start.
“You must see, Faramir, that I cannot possibly leave you alone
– not when you’re probably thinking of doing something that
would hurt a great many people, including some you don’t even
know.”
Had he read my mind? For years now I’d wanted the courage to
take my own life. This seemed as good a time as any.
“It’s not hard to divine the thoughts of a troubled young
man,” Mithrandir went on. “Even one as brilliant as you,
Faramir. You imagine no one would miss you or mourn your passing. You
are wrong. Even if there were no one else, I can name one who would
spend many nights mourning your death.”
“Do you mean my father?” I inquired bitterly.
“Your father would certainly mourn for you,” said the
Wizard. “More than you know. As it happens, though, I was not
referring to him. I was referring to myself.”
“Don’t bother lying to me!” My voice reached my
own ears, it seemed, from a long way off. It sounded harsh and shrill
– not like my voice at all. “I know what you saw just now.
And if you expected anything different, you’re a fool. This is
who I am. It’s all I am. Why pretend?”
“I never pretend,” Mithrandir said firmly. “And
it’s not at all clear that you know what I saw here tonight.”
I shrugged. “Maybe you’re right,” I said. “Maybe
there was nothing to see. Just my brother, pounding away on the bed.
Pounding away at nothing.”
“Do not tell me what I saw! When you tell others what they have
seen, you learn nothing. You must ask, Faramir, and then you must listen
to what they tell you.”
He was right, but I saw no reason to admit it. “I don’t
care what you saw. I know what was there to be seen.”
“You know what you feel,” Mithrandir corrected me. “That
is no more than anyone knows, from the most ignorant beggar to the wisest
sage. It is only one part of what your really are, and not necessarily
the most important part. How much better you would know yourself if
you could see through other eyes. Borrow mine! Ask me what I saw here,
Faramir.”
What did he mean? I was curious, but I was also afraid. The confirmation
of my own darkest fears would leave me with less than the nothing I
already had. Yet as much as I dreaded that final humiliation, I also
wanted it. “You don’t need my permission,” I muttered.
“You can say whatever you like.”
“No. Not if you will not listen. Faramir!”
He was reaching for my hand. I flinched. He paused, his hand suspended
above mine. Something in me, something that had long ago stopped struggling
against the darkness, strove to pull my hand away from his. What stopped
it was nothing I could honestly call hope. Rather, it was the numbness
that had taken the place of hope.
Not much of a beginning, perhaps. Yet my hand stayed where it was.
And at last Mithrandir took it.
Years ago I had imagined the bliss of losing myself in Boromir’s
arms. I had imagined myself enveloped in him, in the strength and heat
and beauty of his body. Oh, my imaginings! Imagination is another word
for hope, isn’t it? Both had gone, leaving only the numbness.
Now, in this room, my fingers curled up tight within the knobbed and
calloused hand of Mithrandir. And my numbness stirred.
You know how it feels, Merry, when you try to stand on a foot you’ve
been sitting on – the sting of new life creeping slowly into lifeless
flesh? A human heart is no different. No pain could have hurt more than
the stir of my deep numbness. The knot of anger under my ribs turned
abruptly to a sob. I choked it down. I would not give in to it!
“Very well, then!” I all but shouted, loudly enough to
drown out the tremor in my voice. “Have it your way. Tell me what
you saw!”
“Are you ready to hear?” asked the wizard.
“Yes!” I cried. And when the angry echoes had died away,
I said it again, more quietly now. “Yes, Mithrandir. Please. Whatever
it is, I’m ready to hear it.”
And so he told me.
Even now, almost twenty years later, it hurts to repeat what he said
that night. It hurts because, rather than invoking the horror of my
darkness, my nothingness, he invoked the still-living, still-breathing
heart that lay beneath, pretending to be dead. That, he said, was what
he saw. He invoked it in the name of my ancestors, the Faithful who
had sailed with their king from fallen Numenor to the shores of Middle-Earth.
He invoked it in the name of Gondor at its height, the glorious fulfillment
of Numenor’s dreams. And he invoked it, last of all, in the name
of a Gondor that might rise again under a new king yet to be revealed.
He told me more, much more. That night, for the first time, I heard
of the love of men and its place in the history of my people. Only recently,
he said, had the love of men lost favor among us. Ruling stewards, and
even the kings who had preceded them, had honored that love even when
they did not practice it themselves. A few had practiced it, though,
and the wizard told me that our own library contained their chronicles,
historical treasures I could read for myself. In them I would learn
how small communities of men had taken root in remote places such as
Ithilien, and even at times in Minas Tirith itself. And Gondor had opened
its arms to them.
He told me, too, of his own long life and many lovers, especially
the very first.
“It is often wise,” he said, “to begin with someone
a bit more experienced than you are yourself. There are exceptions,
of course. Some men reach a great age without ever learning what it
means to make love, and these do not become good teachers. In that respect
I was luckier than most. I had Cirdan, the oldest elf in Middle-Earth.”
Cirdan, he explained, had taught him lessons that were a joy to learn.
A still greater joy was the discovery that these lessons could be bequeathed
to others. For as his own experience ripened, Mithrandir came to see
himself as a messenger in this, as in so many respects. “Teaching
men to love,” he said, “not just with their bodies but with
their hearts and minds, became a mission of mine when I came to these
shores. And in the time that remains I must make sure there are others
to carry on when I leave – perhaps even to bring back what has
been lost. The love of men can find honor again, Faramir, but only if
it first finds a new champion.”
Mithrandir could not have spoken better. Not once did he say, “You
are that champion, Faramir.” Not once did he say, “You will
lead.” If he had, I would not have believed him. I was a blighted
thing, not a champion born to lead men far stronger than I.
Instead, he planted the seeds of a new dream to replace the one that
had died. The love of men! The glory of Gondor! It was a dream immeasurably
greater than one boy’s sorrow, and I saw at once that it deserved
a lifetime of dedication. Could I ever be worthy of it? Could it lift
me out of my darkness into dawn?
I am weeping as I write these words, Merry. I am weeping as I read
them aloud to my future wife, my Éowyn, the beautiful and strong. She
knows what it is to dwell in darkness. She knows what it is to hesitate,
bewildered, when a helping hand appears in the gloom. Her eyes shine,
for she imagines that I did one day become the champion of Mithrandir’s
great dream. I did not. That dream never had just one champion. It had
many champions, a multitude of champions. My men, my lovers, the Rangers
of Ithilien, all rode to battle for the glory of Mithrandir’s
dream. They led one another, as they led me, to victory over darkness.
They died. But first they lived, and lived beautifully.
My first real lover died in Ithilien before I ever came there. It
was Mithrandir who brought us together. The morning after our long talk,
he sent me to the library for a particular scroll. “The Fellowship
Of Men,” he said its name was. It had a subtitle, too: “A
Chronicle of the Rangers of Ithilien.” Here, he said, I would
find not only much lore on the love of men, but also some rather detailed
descriptions of their intimacies. Since he could not bring me a lover
like Cirdan, he said, he would at least bring me practical information.
You can imagine how excitedly I ran to the library next day after sword
practice!
But events took a surprising turn. The scroll was not in its place.
Another boy was reading it. I could see him at a corner desk, the scroll
in his hands, his dark head bent over it.
I knew him. His name was Edrahil, and he had come here from Dol Amroth
when his parents died. Now he lived with distant relations – nobility,
which was why he had sword practice with me and my peers.
That is, he should have had sword practice. He rarely came, however,
and now it seemed I’d found out where he went. This, the great
library of Minas Tirith, was his refuge.
I peeked at him over a scroll I’d grabbed hastily (it was called
“Animal Husbandry In Lossarnoch”). Though tall, he was not
an active boy. He had fine, straight bones and fair skin like marble.
Some might have thought his forehead too high and his eyes too deeply
set. I had always thought he looked intelligent, but he kept very much
to himself, so who could say? What I could say, and did in the privacy
of my mind, was that I found him beautiful.
And here he sat, reading a scroll full of details about the intimacies
of men! I had to speak to him.
No sword had ever terrified me so much. But I remembered Mithrandir
and his dream. Where better to begin the great work than in the library
of my forefathers? Taking a deep breath, I walked across the chamber
and sat down at the desk beside Edrahil.
He looked at me. Then he looked away. Then he looked back, alarmed
to find me staring at him. I cleared my throat.
“That scroll you’ve got,” I said. “Someone
told me it’s worth reading.”
“Did they?” Edrahil blushed. “It is . . . interesting.
Informative.”
I attempted a smile. “How much of it have you read?”
“Oh. Well.” Edrahil fidgeted uncomfortably. “I’ve
already read it through once. Now I’m reviewing . . . certain
chapters.”
This admission excited me tremendously. It will hardly surprise you,
Merry, to learn that my leggings suddenly got a bit tight. But Edrahil
still had a guarded look and I couldn’t think what to do about
it.
When I held my tongue, he said, “So – someone recommended
it?”
“That’s right. Otherwise I never would have heard of it.”
“Neither would I,” agreed Edrahil. “Who told you?”
“Mithrandir. You know, the Grey Pilgrim.”
Edrahil’s eyes grew wide. He put down the Chronicle. “Mithrandir?
What a coincidence! He told me to read it too!”
“He did?” I was thunderstruck. “When?”
“Just this morning, not two hours ago. He always finds a moment
to speak to me when he’s here, but this was the first time he’d
come to my guardian’s house. My guardian didn’t know what
to think. I don’t imagine he likes wizards. Anyway, Mithrandir
said I should hurry to the library at once, that very minute. He gave
me the name of the scroll and then he left.”
There was a pause. We looked at one another with mounting interest.
“When did the Wizard tell you about it?” Edrahil asked.
“Last night,” I replied vaguely. In point of fact, it
had been very early in the morning. Our talk had gone on well past midnight.
There was another pause. Finally Edrahil said, “Faramir –
or rather, I should say, my lord –“
“Please call me Faramir!” I interrupted hastily. “Anytime
I hear ‘my lord,’ I think it means someone else.”
“All right. Thank you.” Edrahil smiled. It may have been
the first smile I’d seen on his face. It made him even more beautiful
than before. “Faramir,” he began again. “Perhaps I’m
wrong, but this may be more than just a coincidence – our meeting
like this. Do you think it might be a plot? A plot of Mithrandir’s?”
I was smiling too. I wondered if I would ever stop smiling. “Yes,”
I said. “Yes, I think a plot is just what it is. Do you –
do you mind? About its being a plot? Because I don’t mind. I don’t
mind at all. But if you do –“
“No, no!” Edrahil assured me, blushing again. “Absolutely
not! I definitely, unequivocally do not mind. I even think – I
think it might be a good plot.”
“I think it might be an excellent plot!”
“A great plot!”
“A wonderful plot!”
We were laughing now, with a delicious combination of relief and happiness.
We knew, suddenly, that in a little while we would be holding hands.
And soon after that we would be kissing. And soon after that . . .
Abruptly I stopped laughing. My heart sprang into my throat.
I realized that Edrahil was looking at me. He was looking at me the
way I’d always wanted Boromir to look at me.
I couldn’t believe it. He was gazing into my eyes, deeply and
intently, as if he saw something real, something alive, something more
than the nothing I’d known myself to be. He was gazing into my
eyes as if he’d found the answer to an ancient riddle. He was
looking at me. At me!
And he was glad.
Falling in love, of course, is all very well and good. But practical
considerations pop up almost at once. Where could we go to do something
about it? He shared a room with two other boys of his household, both
much younger; and as for my room – well, I couldn’t bring
Edrahil to the bed where my brother had used me so often. The very thought
was insupportable.
There was only one person we could go to for help, and that was the
master plotter himself.
Mithrandir had taken a small two-story house on the fifth level. We
ran there as quickly as we could and knocked at the door.
No one answered. I knocked again, a little louder this time, and the
door drifted open in front of me. We looked at one another.
“Does Mithrandir always leave his door unlocked?” Edrahil
asked.
I shook my head. “Never,” I said. “Maybe there’s
something wrong.”
Slowly and quietly, we entered the house. No one seemed to be about.
The front chamber was empty. So was the guest bedroom, though a lamp
burned on the bedside table. The bed had been freshly made. This seemed
odd and unsettling.
Then we heard it – sounds from upstairs.
No, not just sounds. Cries! Wordless cries in two distinct voices.
Was the Wizard in some kind of trouble? Without another thought, we
bounded up the stairs and pushed open the bedroom door.
Lamplight glistened on Mithrandir’s bare chest and shoulders.
His head was back, his eyes closed, his mouth open, and he seemed to
float just above the bed, as if he were riding an ocean swell. Yes,
he rode up and down in a rocking, undulating motion, his knees straddling
– what? Another man, lying face up beneath him. And the other
man was writhing, arching his back – he was naked! We could see
his hard cock disappearing into Mithrandir’s body as he rode it
up and down. The man’s hands were on the Wizard’s own cock
and balls, and indeed both men were climaxing while we watched. White
fluid spattered on a hairy chest. Hoarse cries reached their peak.
We couldn’t move. We couldn’t look at each other. It was
only a minute or two later, when Mithrandir finally opened his eyes,
that I remembered how to speak.
“So sorry!” I said. “Didn’t mean to intrude.
Back later!”
Mithrandir burst out laughing. “Don’t be ridiculous, my
boys! Stay right where you are. I’ll introduce you to my friend,
here, and you can tell us what the matter is while we’re cleaning
up. Pass us that pitcher, will you? And the cloth?”
Edrahil found the items on a bench and handed them over. He obviously
didn’t know where to look. Neither did I.
Mithrandir showed no embarrassment at all as he dipped the cloth into
the pitcher and began wiping off his friend’s sticky chest. “Boys,”
he said. “I’d like you to meet Beregond, newly appointed
to the Third Company. Beregond, please meet Lord Faramir and Edrahil.”
“I hope you’ll excuse me if I don’t get up, my lord,”
Beregond said. He clearly had no choice in the matter, for he couldn’t
budge till Mithrandir removed himself. “I’d offer you my
hand,” Beregond went on, “but it’s not fit to be touched
just now. Mithrandir, wipe off my hands, won’t you?” Mithrandir
complied, then shifted backwards in order to mop up Beregond’s
crotch. We watched in fascination while the damp cloth was rubbed efficiently
over cock, balls and pubic hair.
“Now then,” Mithrandir said while this was going on. “Boys.
How did you manage at the library?”
Glad of the distraction, we poured out our story. No one interrupted,
though the mopping up did move on to Mithrandir’s own crotch and
various other exposed areas. At last all had been told.
Beregond laughed. He was sitting on the side of the bed now and pulling
on his leggings. He looked to be about twenty-five, strong and handsome
and full of good humor. “So that’s it!” he said.
“That’s what?” Mithrandir inquired.
“Oh, you can play innocent if you want to,” the grinning
Beregond replied. “But I’ve seen what an old matchmaker
you are, Mithrandir. A lamp in the guest bedroom? Fresh linens on the
bed? You knew the young gentlemen would end up here and you’ve
got their little love nest all prepared. I should have guessed.”
“Someone’s got to help them out,” Mithrandir shrugged.
“If I don’t do it, who will?”
“It’s not for me to say.” Beregond was fully dressed
now. “I’m due for the watch. My lord, will you excuse me?”
I extended my hand with as much manly ease as I could muster. “It
was a pleasure to meet you, Beregond. And please accept my apologies.
I didn’t mean to interrupt your . . . what you were doing.”
“No harm done, gentlemen. Thank you for your kind hospitality,
Mithrandir. I hope to enjoy it again soon. Good day.”
We heard his boots on the narrow stairs. Soon his merry whistle drifted
up from the street outside, growing fainter as he strode off.
Mithrandir reached for his robes. “An admirable fellow, Beregond,”
he said appreciatively. “It’s a pleasure to meet him at
any time, with or without his clothes. And in spite of his many duties,
he still has a great deal of energy left for the bedroom. Ah, youth!
Is this the first time you’ve seem two men together, Edrahil?”
The boy could only nod. “What did you think of it?”
“I hardly know,” Edrahil replied. “It was so unexpected.
I felt awfully foolish barging in that way. And I didn’t know
you could – that men could – I didn’t know it was
possible!”
“Oh, it’s eminently possible,” Mithrandir said.
“And highly enjoyable too, if it’s done right. Now, I’m
in the mood for a long, brisk walk. As Beregond guessed, the downstairs
bedroom is for you. You’ll find a vase of fresh lubenas flowers
on the shelf. Enjoy yourselves!”
Then he left.
And that, Merry, is how I met my first lover. We made love in Mithrandir’s
guest bedroom. We made love twice – once that afternoon and again
next morning after we woke. We did not do all the things that men do
together. We couldn’t. I was bruised and sore from Boromir’s
rough usage, and I couldn’t bring myself to use Edrahil the same
way. Yet, loving him with my hands and my mouth, I passed some of the
happiest hours of my life. Just kissing him, and being kissed by him,
brought me joy I’d never expected to know. And of course we thought
this was only the start of our lovemaking. We foresaw a life-age of
lovemaking ahead of us.
It was not so. By noon the next day, my father had found out.
My father, the Steward of Gondor. He is dead and I will not speak
of him now. He had spies everywhere. A company was leaving for Ithilien
next day. Edrahil was sent with them. Three months later, word came
that he’d been killed after a single week.
You will say, and rightly, that this tragedy boded ill for Mithrandir’s
great work. I certainly thought so at the time. When I begged my father
to send me to Ithilien, it was in hopes that I would die there myself,
as my beautiful Edrahil had died. I did go to Ithilien. But I did not
die. Instead, over long years and much hardship, I built the company
that fulfilled Mithrandir’s dream. And it, in its turn, built
me.
This is the torch I am passing to you, Meriadoc Brandybuck, the last
of my lovers. When you and I comforted one another in the Houses of
Healing, we still feared that war might sweep away all that we cared
for. Now, to my great joy, I see you setting out into a world of boundless
hope and newly won peace. You must take our torch into that world! You
must shine its light on the many who now have a chance to grow and prosper!
Wherever you go, my love will go with you. So too will the love of
my Éowyn, standing here beside me. She knows the true measure of your
courage, none better. It is because of your courage that she can read
this letter today and know our story. We both know you will find your
heart’s desire in a world that will welcome all you have to give.
Go, my dear Merry. And be blessed.
Your loving Faramir
